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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846584">Snagged</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicCowboy/pseuds/CosmicCowboy'>CosmicCowboy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor wears the trousers in whatever the hell thing they have going on rn, Fluff and Angst, Frankensteining each other back together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mainly Nines' origin, Mutual Pining, Nines is a massive Soft, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Petty Criminal Connor, Slow Burn, Tenuously AU where everything is the same except for a few details, They have the combined emotional intelligence of a brick but they'll get there I promise, Unresolved Sexual Tension, whilst maintaining an uncomfortable amount of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:28:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicCowboy/pseuds/CosmicCowboy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor is struggling to find his place in society after the revolution is won. Things take a bizarre, terrifying turn when he stumbles across an abandoned android that shares his face.</p><p>He's quickly thrust into a world that he didn't ask to be a part of.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Spare Parts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks for clicking! This is my first fic in a Very Long Time, so my writing/pacing is a little rusty.</p><p>Content warning for graphic depictions of...definitely android gore in this chapter. Perhaps murder? I have no idea how to define it.</p><p>Scrapyard wars commence.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Shopping List: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> biocomponent #A449C</em><br/>
<em>biocomponent #7623</em><br/>
<em>biocomponent #321J (x2)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A boot skids in spilled oil on his way down, its presence betrayed only by the holographic glimmer reflecting greens and pinks and blues from a nearby streetlamp’s flickering glow. </p><p>Deviancy has a strange way of doing that - distracting. </p><p>Allowing thoughts to wander enough for missteps to occur, like a foot slipping in obvious hazard, sending body lurching forwards, down that forty-degree slope to land heavily in the dirt below. </p><p> </p><p>Connor had anticipated muck. Rust and thirium, mud made tacky with rain, sticking jeans to his skin where he’d landed, and where palms had hastily swiped the gunge off onto his thighs. How such a place as this remains mystifies him, though he’s grateful now for its persistent existence.</p><p><em>Picture it this way; scalded into the memory:</em> An undignified dumping ground, used since the very beginning. Models both old and new offloaded and left to rot, most damaged beyond repair, though some still remaining stubbornly, hauntingly alive. Clinging to the threadbare rope of their own existence. Even post the revolution few dare return here, and even less have the stomach for it; afraid of what ghosts might greet them, remind them, beg with terror in those glitching eyes to pull them out, take them home. Free them from this cirkel of hell (and <em> ain’t that funny</em>, Connor thinks to himself, that if ever a hell existed for his kind that this most certainly would be it, all copper and plastic fingers). </p><p>Progress built on the shuddering back of suffering, et cӕtera. It’s a shame, actually; a monument to humanity’s depravity --- chucking bodies too-like their own into an open grave, frame on top of too-like-frame. </p><p>If only androids necrotized like corpses, raised up a stink, lured basal creatures to feast and infest --- then perhaps something would have been done about this bottomless, hellish pit. Have it covered with dirt, at least, “mask the putrid stench” as the humans’ traditions would dictate. </p><p>Smother the wrongdoings, forget their existence. </p><p>History repeating itself in a loop, assuredly self-made destruction.</p><p> </p><p>Synthetic guts had hardened a long time ago, his mindset adamant, one of sacrifice deemed necessary to prolong the life of the useful, as he reminds himself he is, and should be. <strong><em> Useful.</em></strong> He’s come here to continue to be that. </p><p>Regardless of Cyberlife’s gradual redemption, even months past the aftershocks of robotic sentience he’s concluded that they deserve none of his custom, not even the gathering of spit between the teeth. No disembodied hands rummaging around, moving wires, plucking at bits of him like bored aviaries squabbling over carrion, mashing at his insides. </p><p>No surrender of control, not like that, not to anyone. </p><p>To brute-force interior programming - boot him out the way they did - was unforgivable.</p><p> </p><p>Connor contemplates Detroit’s current political climate as he toes about the dirt and the rocks, rifling unhurried for the intact chest cavities housing the components he needs. Thoughts wander absently to how Markus might be doing now, where he is, not envying in the slightest what was surely a drastic shift in weight as the title of rebellion leader morphed fast into spearhead political figure. </p><p><em>History in the making,</em> all of this, with himself having played a curiously critical role in its impediment.</p><p>Would he be immortalised as the great villain of their time --- the famed and loathed Deviant Hunter? Ghost and brainwashed hound? Cyberlife with a fist in the scruff of his neck, his own jaws snapping wildly with misplaced bloodlust for the suppression of his kind?</p><p> </p><p>In truth, he sometimes wishes that things hadn’t changed. That he could have remained in his blissful ignorance; continue that simple existence, devoid of any pain. Oblivious to the suffocating pressure of being alive.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, this is his lot now, ostracised by human and android alike. Fitting in nowhere.</p><p>He doesn't have an opinion of it.</p><p> </p><p>So he presses on, mind largely elsewhere as he scales the hills of gradual decomposition birthing the occasional twitching plastic arm, or shin. No sentience just yet, and he’s grateful; the hunt ever made more difficult when fate forces him to twist components from the wailing torso of a poor, long-forgotten bastard. To watch the remnant sparks of sub-life flicker out beneath his grasp, by his hand. It had been an indomitable task the first time, and he’d shed horrified tears over the plastic-rotted body, blue-smeared up to the elbows. </p><p>It has been as easy as simulated breathing every time since. </p><p> </p><p>It’s why plucking the secondary internal fan from the trembling cadaver of a PL700 makes him feel nothing, even when it begs for mercy (<em>stop, please, please!, </em> it gasps), frail hands grasping at his face, digging dirty nails into the supple layer of his cheek in woeful self-defence. Makes him feel less than nothing, not even the pleasant buzz of his own idle static comforts as the gloss varnish of its eyes dries for a final time, the biocomponent spurting thirium as it’s dislodged, and warm, heavy in his palm. </p><p> </p><p><strong><em> Why fight? </em></strong>he wonders. </p><p> </p><p>Why fight when condemned to stare listlessly at the sky, awaiting the unforgiving ebb of battery life as it drains. What comfort is found in the tick-tick-ticking of the chronometer, blinking away the countdown of your own demise? Why cling onto that? </p><p> </p><p>The biocomponent is slid carefully into a ziploc, then into his backpack, dark eyes watching with an almost bored branch of patience as those quaking limbs still, the gaping cavity in its chest ceasing its incessant heave, and the oozing slows. He treads over the body carefully, not wanting to slip in the pooling gore again. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Several hours pass, the sky bruising rich lilac its declaration of time shifting lazily into the early morning. </p><p> </p><p>He’s almost done, just the final fluid injector to find, with feet pleasantly back on solid ground now; though macabre is the sight of frame and frame and frame constructing the walls he’s surrounded by. Meters tall, an obtrusive reminder of his own assured demise, and it is constricting, alienating. </p><p>The idle consideration that this must be how humans feel when patrolling graveyards, morgues, passes over him. Nothing revolutionary.</p><p>He wants to head back home now, concluding that component be damned as exhaustion seeps readily into the wiring, battery flickering between 12 and 13%, imprecise. He’s already below optimal percentiles for function.</p><p> </p><p>Mind elsewhere, it’s only when blind corner is turned, boots scuffing the ground, that he stumbles across it ---</p><p> </p><p>    --- The thing doomed to flip his life upside-down.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It lays there, dejectedly in the mud. </p><p> </p><p>Deactivated skin, scuffed and dented like the rest. Mud-smeared and stained. Completely unspectacular.</p><p> </p><p>Connor's tongue pokes to cautiously wet his bottom lip, processors alerting, thrumming at the sudden promise of fresh biology. A chassis mostly intact is a rare sight, and a welcome one to him now --- for fresh frames promise the freshest components, the least at risk from external damage. Ready, just...<em>aching</em> to be torn out and put to use.   </p><p>Suddenly envigored, tread crunches hurriedly over shattered glass and plastic.</p><p> </p><p>He’s stopped dead when pale eyes snap upwards, swiftly burrowing into his skull. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em><strong> ...Initially</strong> unspectacular.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Those eyes are alert. Vicious. Poised in warning as though it anticipated his arrival. Its expression is neutral and yet...what a ferocious fire lights behind glass blinking slowy up at him. </p><p> </p><p>And his own eyes widen to saucers, pump stuttering, gazing down as the distance is closed in his own violent disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>Even in the consuming darkness, he’d recognise that replicant facial plating anywhere. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He was certain that all RK800 models had been decommissioned. </p><p>At the very least, scrapped for parts, incinerated --- Cyberlife’s own orders. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Every <strong>single</strong> one.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The original RK800, <em> him, </em>iteration -54, maintained for posterity; silly human sentimentalism.</p><p> </p><p>Which is why processor seemingly flounders for a logical reason as to <em> why on earth </em>one of his own faces is staring back at him, grey-white eyes burning a dangerous laserbeam into his own.</p><p>A precursor scan yields unsatisfactory results on the doppelgänger.</p><p>Status on the obvious critical damage comes as primary return <em>(both arms missing, torn tight from the shoulder anchor. Mandible dislocated. Bolting in need of replacement. thirium leaks detected, thirium capacity 38%...)</em>, and then... nothing. </p><p>No discernable registration on the model, no serial number...no offerings of history to assist in the construction of a reason it’s just been left to perish. </p><p> </p><p>All of which concerns Connor greatly. </p><p> </p><p>Concerns and...intrigues.</p><p> </p><p>Every android, no matter its level of manufacturing secrecy, has a serial number, at the very least, stamped fresh from the assembly line. Automated, assured, as certain as their own existence. Why would this one not? </p><p>Brows knit, betraying his confusion, feeling his own pulse thrum faster through too-large lines. </p><p>Those eyes are piercing. Fierce and very, very alive. Irises almost white, burnt golden and pupil reflecting the poor lighting as it bounces from a nearby barrel fire. </p><p>Steel toe-cap nudges into the white meat of its thigh, approving of the defiant solidity of chassis that greets it, resists the movement of force. </p><p> </p><p>Some fight left, then. Residual battery still burning, like so many others in this squalid dump. He can work with this.</p><p> </p><p>Head canting, impossibly intrigued, he squats beside it, elbows resting on knees, arms wrapped protectively around himself. The silence stretches on, heavy, smothering as he attempts to categorise into order of importance what questions jostle and clash for competing significance within the cloud space. </p><p> </p><p>It’s difficult. He wants to ask so much.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of what myriad of useful inquiries could be presented, what rolls from the tongue in favour is a stifled: </p><p>“Can you talk?”</p><p>The stranger's own brows furrow, then, expression shifting to one of what can only be discerned as dramatic incredulity, those reflective eyes glancing between Connor’s own face and downwards, as down as it can go, then back up again with head bobbing in what Connor can only assume is an indication to its jaw. </p><p><strong>Oh,</strong> of course. </p><p>Critical damage, hanging unhinged on one side, the plastimetal cracked and ugly. Connor had even picked up the damage during his precursor scan, rendering the question rather futile. </p><p> </p><p>Another infuriating reminder of the illogical nature of deviancy. </p><p> </p><p>“--- You’re right. Sorry. ” he says hastily, palm raising in fickle apology. </p><p>The skin of the same palm then curiously washes away, revealing the clinical white beneath, seams of ashy blue. Fingertips reach, then, slow as not to startle it, coming to halt a-hover over the android’s closest pectoral. Clearly in its view. Request initially silent, buzzing at the nail bed, though he voices it anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Talk to me this way?”</p><p> </p><p>The sharp and sudden shake of head, the stark walls barricading its software as own programming nudges forwards --- it’s all the response he needs; urgency against the concept enforced how brow scrunches into the nose bridge, as though...in pain? Panicked, maybe. Very obviously unsettled by the idea.</p><p> </p><p>No interface, then. And no answers.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take Connor long to decide. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Old-School Offerings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Where the stranger learns it has an affinity for horrible heavy metal t-shirts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for description of injury.<br/></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is a foolish idea --- and state-of-the-art processing cores aren’t necessary to remind Connor of that. It’s one of deliberately ignored risk, the goliaths of which lay themselves out before him, belly-up and silver eyed, and all the digits on his hands aren’t enough to quantify the warning signs he has seen here.  </p><p> </p><p>There is no logical, algorithmic explanation for why he disregards them. </p><p> </p><p>For why he doesn’t turn heel and <em> run </em>, leave the sorry thing to whatever fate becomes of it.</p><p> </p><p>It’s what any sane individual would do, he’s sure of it, and maybe his self-preservation program has ceased in its function, but it’s impossible to deny that there is this unfathomable pull, this--- this <b>need</b> . He <em> can’t </em> just leave it here to rot into the ground like the rest; some rat-gnawing, pink-fleshed, irrational, infuriating part of him denies that. Not when a mystery stares him so tantalizingly in the face like this. Begging to be unraveled. </p><p>Those eyes...they had been so full of <b>urgency</b>; such a taunting anomaly stirring within them. Spurring him on, daring him to do it. </p><p> </p><p>To cradle that damaged frame and take it home. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Questions jostle for priority, attempt to organise themselves abstractly (- <em> what do we do now - do I keep it hidden - <strong>should</strong> I keep it hidden? - how do I pull more information from it without making it afraid - </em>), all of which to little success. They turn over and over, steeping in his contemplation and yet he comes away maddeningly dissatisfied with their repeat lack of answer. Every hypothesis swiftly debunks itself, database raked and raked and still nothing can ever come close to satisfying him. Frustration admits how thumb drums the steering wheel, and stranger’s thigh as it’s navigated between scrapyard, car, and then home.</p><p>Thoughts race.</p><p>There is nobody he can discuss this with. No mind to query about the peculiar happenstance of stumbling upon someone who looked <em> just like him </em>during his bi-monthly body shop.</p><p>Nobody he trusts anywhere <em> near </em>enough for that. </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson is a possibility, of course, although the idea of asking him for assistance on a dilemma that arose from a certain android’s tendency to “grave rob” didn’t seem altogether very appealing. He didn’t fancy the smack on the wrist he’d receive for it, nor the inevitable demand for an explanation, either. What peace that had established itself a flimsy agreement between them wavers on weak soil, and Connor still hasn’t forgiven him for the execution on the bridge all those months back.</p><p> </p><p>But the silver lining to all of this, he supposes, is that there’s nobody here to scold him on his penchant for bringing in filthy strays off the street.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of which: the primordial vagrant greets them both upon arrival, mewing loudly as her brushy body winds impatiently around Connor’s ankles. She’s very blatantly displeased at the hour’s intrusion, and also at her current state of chronic animal abuse --- being in which there is a sore lack of gourmet salmon presented reverently upon ceramic dish (and Connor better rectify it soon, else war <em> will </em>be waged on the velvet curtain!). </p><p>Connor’s house is small. Arguably, cramped. Issued to him upon the passing of the Android Housing Act, and for the $325 a month he pays, it suits his needs perfectly. No admission of character, or even inhabitance, displays itself here, except perhaps for the solitary fuzzy blanket draped over the living room loveseat, riddled with feline shed and depicting flowers with radiant smiles. Its pastel pinks and yellows jut out against the grayscale nature of the apartment, of which Connor felt no need to update, nor personalise. </p><p>He never saw the necessity. </p><p>To what need would he, regardless --- given his whimsy to explore the isolated dark passages of the city more often than not prevailing over his desire to take advantage of what full comforts a home has to offer him; more nights spent upon the rooftops than here, and to that end the bed remains almost entirely untouched, room tucked away down the corridor. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Their Saturday morning proceeds as follows:  </em>
</p><p>Wishing not to dirty the pristine carpet and upholstery, Connor toes off his boots with relative difficulty by the door, before heading them immediately for the bathroom, android still nestled in his arms like a child. </p><p> </p><p>Leaning the stranger against the tub, he fills it, silence tenuously agreeable in its now extended suspension. Both remain stubbornly on-guard, however, watching closely within the peripherals. The ghosting of a smile dimpling shattered cheek isn’t missed by Connor when his cat wanders in, shamelessly stalking to rub a fluffy cheek against his copy’s exposed ribs.</p><p>Idly, he wonders if it felt the tickle.</p><p> </p><p>Brief separation comes only when Connor excuses himself to hurriedly feed the mistress, then change out of his own clothes - and <em>oh</em> is he grateful to finally peel them off. What sticky mud had penetrated the denim leaves scratchy stains against synthetic skin --- but it’s something to be dealt with later, for more pressing tasks are at hand. The articles are traded instead for some comfortable sweatpants and a tucked-in wifebeater, as his maturing personal taste dictates. </p><p>When he returns he caps the faucet and swirls fingertips into the water, which now fills the tub pleasingly near perfectly halfway. 49℃, his sensory thermometer states; perhaps a little hot, but it errs close to the ubiquitous core temperature, which is just how he himself prefers. Hopefully the heat will be a welcomed change from the February frost biting at the stranger’s exposed circuitry, too. </p><p> </p><p>And as expected, there is no resistance as he lowers that filthy plastic frame into the water, tacky mud and blood oozing tendrils to instantly sully its clarity. There is no tensing of synthetic muscle as he languidly pours cupfuls over disjointed shoulders, chest, and it even tilts its head back, eyes slipping shut as water is tipped over the hairless skull. </p><p>Connor scrubs gently, hand towel dampened and folded, motions painstaking in his effort to thoroughly cleanse the plastimetal of its layered grime.</p><p>Gelled thirium <em> this old </em> is more difficult to shift than he anticipated, however, and to his chagrin, is what smears the android’s entire back - shoulderblades, spine, even up to the base of the neck and the buttock - the compound resists leverage even when pressure is applied, dragged downwards, sideways. After the brief mounting of frustration, and a swift trial and error of his limited shower pantry, Connor concludes that exclusively oil-based substances assist in its removal. </p><p>Which, he supposes, is good for a future reference?</p><p>From there it’s relatively simple, but in the end he resorts to digging a nail between the plating seams where it gathered the most of the stubbornly persistent bodily fluid. A successful bid to relieve it of its unpleasant build-up, it turns out, and he's pleased to finally let that familiar pale blue glow through the seams again.</p><p>He doesn’t say a word about the hitching gasp elicited as he claws his way down the spine's central junction.</p><p> </p><p>Once satisfied with the degree of cleanliness, Connor relents. Instead he turns now his attention to what injuries can be perceived from here, where he sits on his heels by the bath, beyond what just a scan will offer him. </p><p>He’s trying to shift away from relying so heavily on the factory suites. Wants to believe he’s capable of more than just perfunctory analysis. </p><p>Hopefully he can gain some insight.</p><p> </p><p>So he studies the dislocated mandible gravely, turning the stranger’s head delicately between his fingers as those near-white eyes in turn watch him, more overtly, now. Questioning. Noticeably lacking the danger of their initial encounter. The component is completely destroyed on the right side, broken and hanging, tongue lolling a macabre sight cradling into the trough (and the appendage is weirdly blue, he notices, thirium-swelled, periwinkle gums. U.V. reactive salivate). Molars are missing too, and some other teeth are cracked, though that is, admittedly, less of a concern. </p><p>Gaze shifts next to the nearest of the amputations. Of course, he was aware of the damage before, but, the current state once he inspects it closer serves only to drop heavy into his guts. The limb had clearly been snapped direct from the anchor, and with so little care that the structural component capping the replicant bone still remains within the basin, cradled by the faux scapula. What thirium lines surround it lay limp into the wound, themselves snapped off at irregular angles, almost jagged. The flow of blood has ceased, for now, in what Connor can only assume is the android’s body closing off all but the necessary functions for survival.</p><p>He doubts that the left receptacle is in any better condition. </p><p>Fingertips then ease to the back of a knee, guiding it gently upwards to usher the extremity into a bend. The motion elicits a grimace - the subtle scrunching of brows and nose, lips pursed tight - fleeting, but he catches it nonetheless. Analysis of the limb displays the myriad of issues with it; and a scan is eventually necessary to detect them all. The primary concern seems to be a total lack of lubricant to the joint of the hip, forcing it to mill into the socket, atrophying the pad of protective silicone there. </p><p>No wonder it had collapsed when Connor tried setting it down on its own two feet earlier --- the poor sod is grinding its own gears to dust.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll see if he can acquire the model specifications manual later. There should be something he can do about all of...this.</p><p> </p><p>They sit until the water turns cold, and then longer still. </p><p>Fastidious attention, under the pretense of responsibility.</p><p>Wouldn’t want to stain the carpet now, would we?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps clothing isn’t necessary, but Connor is very familiar with the comfort they can offer in strange times. After toweling the android off he sits it on the bed, feet planted for balance upon the floor, letting it watch as he rummages one of the closets for something that will fit. Measurements are taken with a prompt scan of the stranger’s torso - a 35 inch waist, 46 inch chest - and then compared with articles as he retrieves and unfolds them. He contrasts their circumference with subtle frustration, a majority of his own clothing proving to be at least a size too small. </p><p>Eventually he locates the largest t-shirt in his possession (well-worn, the band <em> Candlewolf </em>confidently emblazoned across both front and back), and that one pair of too-large adidas shorts, both of which had been items courtesy of the vintage job-lot he purchased for himself last month. </p><p>Hits and misses. He’s glad they’re finally getting some use.</p><p> </p><p>The shirt fits well enough, despite how it stretches dangerously across the stranger’s chest. The shorts appear to be perfect in the waist, if a little, well, short, in the leg. </p><p>Acceptable...ish. </p><p>Connor sets a passing digital reminder to acquire clothing of a more...appropriate sizing. Something more comfortable, at least. Like his sweatpants.</p><p> </p><p>The android noticeably relaxes once awarded its new-found modesty. The cracked, colour-faded print of the t-shirt - depicting anthropomorphic wolves roaring, holding swords - makes it smile, too (as Connor is quickly learning that the high-raised softening of brows, the singular quirk of jaw’s partly-functional side as it gazes down at the silly illustration --- these are quiet, missable demonstrations of approval), and the scene presenting itself is fast becoming perilously endearing. </p><p> </p><p>But for as weirdly domestic as this exercise has been, they <em> have </em>to communicate. There’s no option not to. </p><p> </p><p>The first thing Connor tries is to organise a server for wireless messaging between them; something clandestine, difficult to trace, but when he initiates an address search in order to add the stranger to it, he finds only the expected, disappointing serial numbers of those who live around him. Not even the suggestion of a foreign unfamiliarity expresses itself, like he’d hoped. </p><p>So it must be offline, then. That’s the only plausible explanation algorithms can surmise, but it immediately disputes the fact that it’s awake, seemingly as alright as it can be, given the current situation, and still sitting politely on the edge of the bed, exactly where he’d left it. </p><p> </p><p>None of this makes any sense. The more he looks the deeper into the rabbit hole he falls.</p><p> </p><p>Its jaw lends itself to such disrepair that an entirely new structural component is most likely necessary to replace it, so verbal exchange isn’t possible, yet. Schemes are already hesitantly underway in order to get ahold of the appropriate articles, as Connor had made sure to send a word to a...slightly less than legal emergency contact while rifling the closet earlier. He’s only had to use it twice before, and the results have always been exemplary.    </p><p>Figures that this is as urgent an instance as any to be utilising such a thing.</p><p>Since the revolution, and Cyberlife’s subsequent restructuring, its monopolisation of the spare parts market means that it’s become almost impossible to attain affordable repair and replacement treatment for any model bearing their logo. Just as irritatingly, humanly expected.</p><p>Not that Connor ever plans on giving them his hard-earned cash to begin with - old grudges that just won’t let go, et caetera. </p><p>Thus, his acquaintance with the “unofficial” parts distributor for Eastern Detroit, Delilah.</p><p>A real favour, what she’s doing for him.</p><p> </p><p>Once it can verbalise, <em>that </em>is when the real questions will be asked. No more pretending as though Connor bringing it home was nothing more than an act of goodwill; rescuing an android out of the kindness in his heart. </p><p>For now - at least, until the component is ready for pick-up - he’ll just have to improvise.</p><p> </p><p>And he’s nothing, if not resourceful. </p><p> </p><p>Pulling the wooden chair from beside the closet (of which its assistance is needed to reach the topmost shelves), he spins it expertly for the seat to face away from the stranger. Connor then straddles it in its reverse, arms folding for elbows to rest atop the cresting rail. Chin perches atop his wrist with deliberate blasé. </p><p>Maintaining his guard, he observes the android’s face - its expression carefully neutral as it watches him in return.  </p><p>He contemplates for a prolonged silence before he asks: </p><p>“Do you know morse code?” </p><p>A nod comes slowly as reply.</p><p>“Good. Please answer by blinking the spelling of your response.”</p><p>Another singular nod in understanding, and hopefully compliance.<em> Perfect.  </em></p><p> </p><p>So he starts with perhaps the most important question of them all.</p><p>“Do you have a name?” </p><p>Obediently, it spells out the numbers 9-0-0.</p><p>Which causes a furrow in his brow. Connor had been anticipating a typical, human-sounding name; David, maybe, or Richard. Something given by whoever had possession of it prior to its unceremonious dumping, or its own deviation - given that it experienced one - whichever came first. </p><p>900 seemed curiously lackluster. Impersonal. </p><p>He doesn’t like it.</p><p>“So, Nines, then.” he reconfirms, as though the sudden nickname was any better.</p><p> </p><p>Nine. Nine-hundred.</p><p>Nines has the sweeter ring to it.</p><p> </p><p>What comes next is but a prerequisite - for who’s to say how long the android had been rotting in the dirt prior to when he found it. By appearance alone it may have been long enough for it to have avoided the sphere of Markus’ revolutionary influence, and he can never be too careful.</p><p>“Are you a deviant?” he asks, voice cautious in its delivery.</p><p>It is silent for a moment, no doubt weighing the options of its answer. Eventually a response comes in the wordless lifting jerk of its chin, pale eyes gazing down the slope of its nose, brow ridge lifting. Surveying Connor from head to toe.</p><p>As if it’s countering: <em> Are you? </em></p><p>Which is interesting. Surely it would have concluded the truth by now, given Connor’s obvious autonomy up until this point. </p><p>But then again, perhaps it's more of a deviant feature than he initially realised --- to overlook such blatant detail in the face of personal distress. This android has certainly had an unpleasant time of it, and Connor decides not to hold it to that. At least they'll be explicitly on even ground, now.</p><p>So instead, he fixes it with his own, cheeky quirk of lip. </p><p>“Would I live on my own if I wasn’t?”</p><p>Shoulders (well, what is left of them) slump in reply, head dipping to the side through a frustrated roll of eyes --- as if to say <em> oh, obviously not, </em> to itself.</p><p> </p><p>Connor never knew such personality could be expressed despite the lack of hands to gesticulate, nor voice to speak inflexion. </p><p>It then settles, nodding once more, answering his question. <em> I am. </em></p><p> </p><p>He wastes no time after that. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Do you know what biocomponents you’re compatible with?” </p><p>No words follow. Rather, almost instantaneously, he receives an email, its sender identity seemingly randomised, nonsensical. There is no traceable IP location, and even the address itself appears to have been manipulated just to deliver this message alone. Unusual, sure, but he’s guilty of doing the same paranoid thing when wishing to remain anonymous. He doesn’t comment.    </p><p>Upon opening, he’s surprised to find that it’s not a Cyberlife manual like he, maybe naively, initially anticipated. Alternately, it’s a list of all the biocomponents this stranger appears to be comprised of. Most of which, he recognises, as a quick cross-reference confirms their status as patented parts from Cyberlife itself. </p><p>Then there are some that he just...doesn’t. <em> KEVLAR 44...BARRIER CHEST PLATE C... </em>more elements he’s never even heard of before.</p><p> </p><p>Weird, weird, weird. </p><p>The more he discovers, the less he finds he likes about all of this. The more he finds himself reconsidering bringing it home in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>Deeper into the rabbit hole he goes.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Fingertips pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunching shut through the initiation of a brief internal diagnostic (and<em> goodness, is it really 7:39am already?)</em>. Battery reminds him of its flickering status, a dubious 2%, and even despite the execution of power-save he’s been exhausted by the events of the early hours. </p><p> </p><p>He knows he shouldn’t trust it. But he also is aware of its own depletion, and convenient inability to walk. </p><p>Against all logic he just...he wants to.</p><p>They’ll both be safe, for today.  </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for cooperating, Nines, but I have to rest. I suggest you do too.”</p><p>Rising, Connor then returns the chair to its original location. He’s about to retire proper before gaze is snared on his way out, the android, still sitting, looking at him as though morose to see him go. Manipulator.</p><p>Connor considers that demanding eye, then the upright position he planned to abandon it in, and concludes that maybe laying down would be more comfortable for it, especially given the state of its hip. </p><p> </p><p>So that’s exactly what he helps it achieve.</p><p> </p><p>Once placated, its head dipping cozy into the down pillow, he takes one final opportunity to perch anxiously on the edge of the bed, lips parting with the effort of formulating what he wants to say.</p><p>He wants it to know that it’s safe here, with him. </p><p> </p><p>He holds that gaze, earnesty soft, hanging from every word. </p><p>“You don’t have to trust me just yet, but I want to help you so, later on, you can help me. Nobody knows you’re here, and if that's what you want, I'll keep it that way.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>And that’s it. </p><p>Connor decides that he’ll fix its hip once they awaken, door clicking shut on his way out.</p>
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